Redemption of the Duke (7 page)

“Do you have family, Miss Cooper?” Lady Sophia asked.

Trying not to feel tense, Faith answered, “I do, my lady. My widowed mother still
lives in our village.”

“And you probably provide some of her support,” the young woman said with sympathy.

Faith nodded.

“Any siblings?”

She didn’t look at the duke, she couldn’t, because suddenly she thought that his sister
still had him, and Faith had no brother to grow old with.

“My brother died serving in the army, Lady Sophia,” Faith said quietly, “just over
two years ago.”

And then she felt a new grief, of being unable to speak of his regiment, for all would
know he’d served with the duke, and that Faith’s employment could be no coincidence.

The young woman inhaled. “Oh, dear, I am so sorry to remind you of your sorrow, Miss
Cooper.”

“I am not alone in having lost loved ones, Lady Sophia, especially not as this table.
I know you all understand how I feel.”

And although her words had been about the three widows sitting at the table, she couldn’t
help noticing that the duke set down his fork just after picking it up, then took
a healthy swallow of his wine. She almost felt like she was throwing her brother’s
death in his face, but she hadn’t been the one to bring it up—nor should she feel
bad for discussing it.

But guilt and remorse were powerful emotions, and she’d felt them herself. She wanted
to hold on to her anger over her brother’s death, but she couldn’t. The duke hadn’t
wanted him to die, hadn’t deliberately made it happen.

But that didn’t mean she could forgive him for forcing her out of one position and
into another.

The conversation drifted to other topics, and Faith ate mostly in silence, glancing
at the duke on occasion. This was her first time seeing him interact with people other
than herself. He seemed so polite and friendly with all the women of his household,
even tolerant of Lady Tunbridge. He was the one they deferred to, but he did not allow
that to make him seem arrogant. No, he hid that part of himself well, maybe even from
himself. His sister and aunt genuinely liked him, and his mother seemed to dote on
his every word, asking about the women he’d recently danced with as if they were all
future marriage options.

“He can’t marry most of those women,” Lady Tunbridge said. “He’s avoiding the ones
he should be courting, and dancing with the ones who only exact pity.”

Faith almost flinched. She was one of the ones he pitied, for her wallflower status
as well as because of her brother’s death.

“Everyone enjoys dancing, whatever their status,” Lady Sophia said coolly. “I think
it’s wonderful that Adam is dancing with so many women who truly appreciate it.”

“He never did that in his youth,” Lady Tunbridge pointed out slyly.

“You can actually speak directly to me,” Adam said in a dry tone. “I am sitting right
here. And yes, I’ve matured in the army. It tends to do that to a man. I’m trying
to make up for the mistakes of my past.”

Faith kept her gaze on her plate.

“You have nothing to make up for,” the duchess insisted. “You were a young man then—we
were all young at some point. You were the heir to a dukedom, and that makes a man
feel—” She suddenly broke off, and her pale cheeks reddened.

“He was not the heir,” Lady Tunbridge said tightly, “much as you always wished otherwise.
My late husband was.
He
should have been the duke.”

The room was full of strained silence.

“I misspoke,” the duchess said quietly. “Forgive me.”

But Lady Tunbridge rose to her feet with stiff dignity and walked out of the dining
room.

Lady Sophia said, “I’ll go to her, Mama, if you don’t mind.”

The duchess was in the process of draining her glass of wine, then lifted the empty
glass to her daughter as a permission of sorts. When Sophia had gone, the duchess
stood up and said, “I will retire to my room to nurse my aching head.”

She kissed the duke on the forehead as if he were a little boy, then lightly touched
his shoulder. “I am so glad you’re home,” she whispered fiercely.

He touched her hand, then let her go.

Faith was left alone with the countess and her nephew. “I’d like to talk to you in
private, Lady Duncan.”

The footmen were waiting at the door to clear the table, and both Faith and the countess
rose to their feet.

“Don’t bother leaving,” the duke said, and with a hand gesture sent away the footmen,
who shut the doors behind them. “I imagine you have some things to say to me, as well?”

Chapter 7

A
dam almost felt guilty at how much he enjoyed watching the many expressions of Miss
Faith Cooper. He guessed she thought herself so very calm and professional, but for
some reason, he could read every emotion that crossed her face and, strangely, so
much of it was by the tilt of her head. Her head sank back in awe at the home he used
to take for granted; her chin dropped as if to hide her uneasiness dining with a duke’s
family when she came from a humbler background; she held her head rigidly to control
anger and indignation whenever she looked at him. Spots of color bloomed in her cheeks,
and her gray eyes flashed almost silver in the lamplight. With her heightened emotion,
he was surprised to find her pretty, when he’d thought her quite plain upon first
seeing her in Hyde Park. She had this way of tilting her head up when intrigued, as
if she was ready to face the world to appease her curiosity. But he was beginning
to think she took great pains to seem other than she was.

“Your Grace,” Miss Cooper began coolly, “I—” Then she faltered, glanced at Aunt Theodosia
again, then let out her breath. “Oh very well, I could ask these questions in front
of you both. Lady Duncan, how did you come to hire me? And please do not say we simply
had an easy conversation and think alike.”

“But we do, of course,” Aunt Theodosia said, smiling almost innocently. “I took an
almost instant liking to you from the moment . . .” Her voice faded.

“From the moment the duke pointed me out,” Miss Cooper finished for her.

“Yes, I did that,” the duke said, lounging idly back in his chair. “You would not
see reason, insisted on keeping that position with the Warburtons—who took advantage
of you—just because it was I who wanted to offer you help.”

“You are a powerful nobleman, Your Grace,” she said between gritted teeth. “Do you
not think it looks suspicious for you to
help
me?”

“You know that’s not why you rejected my help. My aunt knows as well—I told her everything.”

Although he hadn’t told his aunt how he felt lighter, more aware of everything, whenever
he was near Miss Cooper—Faith. Even if only in his mind, he liked to think of her
name, for it evoked her to him. She kept the faith of her brother’s memory; she fulfilled
her mother’s faith in her by supporting her at great cost to her own dignity.

But did she have faith in herself? What did he sense beneath the cool, unflappable
surface of Faith Cooper?

She turned to stare at Aunt Theodosia, who nodded and put her faintly trembling hand
on Faith’s.

“He told me of his part in your brother’s terrible death, my dear. I was not there,
I cannot excuse whatever behavior provoked him—”

“Arrogance, dear aunt,” Adam said, feeling suddenly very weary. “Arrogance and the
belief that other people make mistakes, but not me. That my gut was always right and
I should never second-guess myself. But you don’t need to hear my excuses,” he said,
looking directly at Faith.

Her eyes widened even as her gaze stayed fixed within his. He thought she might remain
silent, because he was saying the truth, wasn’t he?

“But don’t you see you’ve done it again?” she demanded, glancing from him to Lady
Duncan. “You’re arrogantly believing I need you to rescue me!”

“But you do—you did.” He leaned forward. “I didn’t act rashly. I’ve given this
years
of thought. You, a gentleman’s daughter, had to become employed because of me.”

“No, I took a position because of my brother’s death—and unless you killed him yourself,
the world doesn’t revolve around you and neither does the entire blame for his death.”

He sat back again, staring at her in surprise. “Of course it’s my fault—you agreed
with me.”

“I’ve thought better of it since we first met. My—my grief and anger welled up within
me when you told me everything, made me relive his death all over again. Perhaps I
would not have fueled your need to assuage your conscience if I’d been allowed to
walk away. But no—you wanted more from me. And now you have it. Does it make you feel
better?”

He frowned at her. “This is a trick question.”

She groaned and got to her feet. “Lady Duncan, I will bid you a good night.”

“But my dear, will you remain here at Rothford Court with us? I do look forward to
spending time with you, to sharing my causes and perhaps passing on the fervor to
someone who will appreciate it.”

Adam watched Faith look down at Aunt Theodosia’s hand, thin, frail, blood vessels
like a mark of a long life—and that hand trembled now from age, not from emotion,
and somehow that was worse, at least to Adam.

Faith must have thought the same. She smiled at his aunt. “If you still want my companionship,
then yes, I’ll remain.”

She shot Adam a narrow-eyed look that Aunt Theodosia missed by sitting back and clapping
her hands together. And that look said,
I have no choice—and it’s all your fault.

And he was content with that. She could not talk him out of believing he’d done the
right thing by assisting her, by bringing her into his own household where he could
protect her. Nothing would happen to Cooper’s sister now.

But as he watched her take her leave, found his gaze dipping to her hips once again,
he wondered if he’d done what was best for
him.
She was not a willful, romantic actress, once his favorite type of woman. She was
a gently bred lady living in his household, under his care. He’d once thought such
a woman boring, conservative, and uninteresting.

And yet he had been anticipating their first dinner together, the conversations that
might be battlefields. He desired her in a way that crept up on him slowly, so subtle
he hadn’t seen it at first, but now he couldn’t deny it.

But he could never have her, could never dishonor her or her brother’s memory. Maybe
that would keep him from acting on impulse, from turning back into the boy he used
to be, rather than the man he wanted to be, the man who had a reputation to uphold,
the honor of a centuries-old title.

“Adam?”

He almost started at the sound of his aunt’s voice. “Yes, Aunt Theodosia?”

She was watching him intently, then she glanced at the door Faith had just disappeared
through. “Be careful, my dear boy. I know you want to help her, and now you have.
Let me take care of her from now on.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

His aunt left, and Adam pushed down his uneasiness.

F
aith had slept fitfully in her new bed, and it wasn’t out of discomfort. She should
get up, could see daylight through the curtains, but the maid she’d asked to wake
her hadn’t come yet, so she lay there, feeling utterly lazy and almost content. She’d
had a hard time falling asleep, still overly alert after the awkward dinner with the
Chamberlin family.

And she had to admit—overly alert from being across the table for an entire evening
from the Duke of Rothford. He was the powerful center of the family, made so by the
deaths of his brothers, true, but she could imagine how it must have been with three
young Chamberlin men vying for control. This massive mansion probably hadn’t been
big enough to contain them all.

But now it was just him, the duke, and revolving around him the women, each with her
own very unique personality. Faith may have been overshadowed by the forceful women,
but she hadn’t minded watching them interact.

But now that they’d all met and begun to relate, surely things would settle down.

There was a knock at the door, and Faith sat up and let the blankets fall to her waist.
“Come in, Ellen.”

But Mrs. Morton came in instead, her expression more reserved than the previous evening.
“Good morning, Miss Cooper. I do understand your exhaustion, moving to a new household,
but I do think from now on you should attempt to join Lady Duncan as she takes breakfast.”

Faith gasped. “But—I had no idea I’d overslept! Do forgive me, Mrs. Morton. It will
never happen again.”

Mrs. Morton nodded, her expression easing. “You do not work for me, Miss Cooper, and
owe me no apology. But I appreciate the offer. I’ll send Ellen to you, since she’ll
assist you dressing from now on.”

“I don’t need the services of a lady’s maid, Mrs. Morton. Believe me, I’m perfectly
capable of taking care of myself.”

“Lady Duncan insisted, Miss Cooper. Have a good morning.”

When the housekeeper had gone, Faith jumped out of bed and saw from the mantel clock
that it was almost ten o’clock. Her mouth dropped open. She’d never slept so late
in her life. And what had happened to Ellen? She hadn’t told Mrs. Morton she’d requested
the girl wake her—no need to get her in trouble on Faith’s first full day.

She pulled a gown from her wardrobe, and was already brushing her hair when Ellen
at last scratched on the door. Faith called for her entrance, and the girl walked—no,
she sauntered toward the dressing table.

“Shall I do your hair, miss?”

“If you could bring me some warm water to wash with, Ellen, that would be a good start.”
She hesitated. “I know you are not in my employ, but if you offer to awaken me, please
remember to arrive on time.”

Ellen blinked her pale eyes, and her expression didn’t change. “I didn’t offer to
wake you, Miss Cooper.”

“Then you must have forgotten,” Faith said patiently. “I promise, I don’t need much
from you, and I know you have other duties.”

Ellen didn’t say anything, only bobbed the tiniest curtsy imaginable and left the
room. Faith grimaced and continued to brush her own hair. Did the girl think Faith
wouldn’t complain because she was barely above a servant herself?

And she was right, Faith thought grimly. It would not do to get the staff in trouble
on her first day at Rothford Court.

By the time she reached Lady Duncan’s sitting room, where she wrote most of her letters,
Faith was feeling flustered. Lady Duncan, ensconced in bed with a writing desk across
her lap, glanced up at her, then glanced again, pressing her lips together, probably
to hide her amusement.

Faith knew what she looked like, hadn’t had the heart to tell Ellen her hair-styling
skills left much to be desired. A curl was already beginning to slide down her ear
in a maddening way that made her want to itch—not that curls ever lasted long in her
hair, but Ellen hadn’t listened to her, had simply done what she wanted to do. Perhaps
using a turban was a smart idea, she thought, eyeing the elaborate sky-blue turban
Lady Duncan wore to match her dressing gown.

“Good morning, Lady Duncan,” Faith said, sitting down abruptly in a chair beside the
bed. “Please forgive me for being late.” She glanced around at the feminine, intricate
carving on all the furniture, the soft upholstery, the framed landscapes. This was
a comfortable, soothing lady’s retreat.

“We had not set a time to be together,” Lady Duncan said, eyeing Faith through her
monocle as if she wanted to see the hairstyle close up.

Faith resisted the urge to check her hair. “Perhaps not, but you told me you wrote
letters in the morning when you were in residence, and I wanted to be here to help.
I promise I will be tomorrow.”

“Moving to a new home and meeting new people is always exhausting, my dear. And I
am no greeter of dawn myself.”

Faith usually was, but she stayed quiet, for today was no proof of that.

“Unlike my nephew,” Lady Duncan added, shaking her head. “He used to be quite the
lounger in his youth, not awake until almost noon from late-night revelry. But since
his return . . .” She let her words die, and for a moment her eyes were touched with
sadness.

Faith didn’t want to know more about him, didn’t want to encourage his aunt, but part
of her employment was providing companionship and conversation to the elderly woman.

“Surely awakening earlier than before is also a sign of maturity,” Faith offered hesitantly.
“As a duke, he has much to do.”

Lady Duncan seemed to brighten. “That’s true. I would not want to think that he had
trouble sleeping at night, although you are one of the rare people in whom he confided
why.”

This was beyond uncomfortable, but Faith could only nod.

“Plus, I do believe his insatiable need to fence might make him tired enough to fall
sleep early at night.”

“He fences?” Faith said, then inwardly winced. Of course he fenced—he’d been a military
officer.

“He loved it as a boy, and returned home with even more of a fascination with it.
He goes to a fencing academy nearly every day.”

No wonder he seemed in . . . fine physical shape. She thought of the width of his
shoulders, the way his trousers fit snuggly to his thighs. And then a blush had her
looking anywhere but in Lady Duncan’s eyes.

“I am not certain how you wish my help with your letters, my lady,” Faith said brightly.
“Writing them for you, reading them . . . ?”

“Today you may read. What do you think?”